If anything, the tension was worse.
What they needed was time and space away from each other. Of course, Daphne always felt better when she was away from people she didn’t know well, but it stood to reason they could all do without a daily reminder of that difficult discussion.
Of course, she wouldn’t be reminded of it so often if she didn’t lurk around corners, watching both the marquis and Benedict to see if either of them did anything with their new knowledge.
She took a deep breath and plunged on. “Why don’t you simply go to them, my lord? Wouldn’t that be easier?”
He sighed and rolled his shoulders, looking oddly vulnerable for a man with no one to really answer to. “There are benefits to being a marquis, Mrs. Brightmoor. Aside from the many laborious obligations that come along with the title, I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. That includes travel. As you’ll soon learn, I like to be home.”
She swallowed. Her father had been a gentleman, a man of considerably lower class than the man who sat before her, and yet there’d been a steady stream of other gentlemen through his study. If Lord Chemsford stayed here . . . How many more people did a marquis have dealings with? How many people were about to invade her quiet, secluded life? “So we’re to expect a great deal of these occasional guests, then?”
He picked up a pile of papers from the corner of his desk. “I suppose. I find it easier to do business in my own home.” He glanced at one of the papers, a personal letter by the look of it, and frowned. “It’s not a great concern to you. Men with business on their minds don’t tend to require many amusements. A healthy negotiation and spirited discussion during the day, a good book and a brandy in the evenings. You’ll need to provide nothing but aired-out chambers and a bit more food.”
“Right, then.” Daphne swallowed hard and wiped her hands on her skirt, her callused fingers scraping against fabric soft from an abundance of washings.
Please, God, do not let any of the men coming now or ever know who I am. It was unlikely, even if she knew them, that they would remember her. People hadn’t tended to remember her when she was standing in the same room.
He’d said they were men of business. As long as that was all it was, she would be able to manage.
“I don’t expect any of my family.”
She blinked. No, she hadn’t spoken out loud this time either. He was simply reading her mind. “Oh.”
“That’s not something I would normally tell you, as it truly isn’t a concern my housekeeper should have, but—” he sighed and pointed at the paper he’d recently been frowning at—“the fact that my cousin is trying to get himself in my good graces in exchange for use of some of the properties in my care brings to mind the fact that this is not exactly a normal situation.”
He ran a hand along the edge of the desk as he looked from the letter up to Daphne. “Should Maxwell become persistent in his intentions to renew our childhood closeness, I will be sure to make arrangements for Benedict to be elsewhere first.”
Daphne nodded, knowing she should be grateful for the concession, but the fact that Maxwell Oswald coming here was even a mere possibility was going to give her nightmares.
Not that it really mattered if he saw her. He didn’t know her, would have no reason to remember her. She’d been wearing a mask and costume that night and pretending to be Kit. There was no danger for her.
Just a great deal of remembered shame.
“Have Mr. Pasley prepare the stable. They’ll be arriving by carriage.” Lord Chemsford turned his attention to an open ledger, effectively dismissing her, but his thumb tapped against the edge of the book and his gaze didn’t move across the page.
Not that his idleness was Daphne’s concern, of course. He was a marquis. He could stare at dust drifting in a sunbeam if he wanted to.
She, however, had a house to prepare. Already sweat had pooled at the small of her back, making her dress stick to her skin. Working for someone else was so much more difficult and irksome than she’d expected. When there’d been a dozen children under the roof along with Daphne, Kit, and Jess, it had seemed like there were always linens to change, wash, or fold. Her current workload was less than half of what it used to be, but it felt ten times more tedious.
But the lord of the manor had expressed his wishes and, for at least the time being, she and Sarah had no choice but to see them through. She couldn’t even pull Eugenia in to help. Between his lordship, his guests, and the household staff, both Jess and Eugenia were going to be working hard on the meal preparation.
She turned and took a step toward the door.
“Mrs. Brightmoor.”
His low voice brought her to a halt as effectively as a shout. He continued speaking before she could turn back around, though.
“Perhaps, in the interest of concentration, it would be best if the construction on the house paused while the men are here.”
Conflicted emotions rolled through Daphne. Was he ashamed of Benedict or merely trying to protect him?
Did it matter?
“Of course,” she said softly and left the room.
Sarah and Daphne rushed to prepare the bedchambers. They didn’t even know how many men were coming, or if they were bringing servants or other staff with them. Just in case, Daphne set about preparing every possible bed.
Then she walked through every room, making sure each one was ready for the guests of a marquis. In the upstairs sitting room that had once been her bedroom, she paused to lean against the frame of the open window and try to catch her breath. The peaceful birdsong she’d enjoyed so often was broken by the sound of a carriage coming through the trees at the front edge of the property.
She and Sarah had finished preparing the rooms none too soon it would seem.
“Time to go downstairs,” Daphne said to Sarah, pushing away from the window and tucking the dustrag she’d been using into the pocket of her apron. “Since we’re light on footmen, we’ll have to see to escorting the guests ourselves.”
It would have been nice to change, since her wrinkled apron and wilted dress hardly made the best first impression, but there was nothing Daphne could do about it now. Morris sneered at her, looking her clothing up and down when she entered the front hall a few moments after he did. Daphne simply squared her shoulders and stuck her nose up a bit more in response.
She refused to be ashamed of hard work, especially work that had been dumped on her with little notice. What had Morris been required to do in preparation? Press another neckcloth?
Daphne waited just inside the front hall, near the door that led to the central hall and the two grand staircases. Sarah stood behind her, squaring her little twelve-year-old shoulders in an attempt at mimicking Daphne’s stance.
There should be some encouragement in the young girl’s faith and imitation, but Daphne could only think about the fact that more unknown people were about to invade her broken sanctuary. Not to mention the fact that this was her first true test as housekeeper. Sarah was destined for a life of service, and if she was going to succeed, Daphne needed to get this right.
Everything was as ready as she could make it. Now all she needed was for the men who walked through that door to be ones she’d never laid eyes on.
Chapter seventeen
William had never had the desire to be eccentric or be thought of as anything other than noble and honorable. If he were going to shock society, he’d rather do it by taking the marquisette in a visionary new direction than with a strange household or a tactless demeanor. He didn’t want anyone talking about him at all, really, unless it was to say what an amazingly distinguished contrast he made to his philandering father.
Accomplishing such a distinction, though, required conforming to every societal norm. For the past ten years he’d distanced himself from all but a small group of people who valued intellectual discourse and a quiet dinner over balls and operas.
He liked his quiet life, where he could breathe without some beady-eye
d matron watching for the first sign that he intended to act like his father or make waves like his mother. But he couldn’t achieve his goals in such isolation.
Having two rankless businessmen about to walk through William’s door felt like the first step back toward the world he’d been all too happy to leave behind.
The clatter of horse hooves broke the silence, and William left the library to greet his guests in the front hall. A sigh built up in his chest as he looked about the room, but he didn’t release it. It would seem he was destined to look at least a little eccentric.
His valet, whom he’d pressed into service as a temporary butler as well, stood ready at the door. Mrs. Brightmoor stood meekly on the side, and William hoped she was prepared to show the gentlemen to their rooms. She chewed her lips and generally resembled a skittish horse ready to bolt for the barn.
He really should do something about his housekeeper.
Dismissing her came to mind once more, but he rejected the thought just as quickly. With all that had transpired over the past few days, he couldn’t simply dismiss her on a whim.
The revelation of Benedict’s existence had provided as many questions as it had answers, perhaps even more. Curiosity plagued William. Thirty minutes where he could ask Mrs. Brightmoor any question he wanted and be assured of an honest answer would go a long way toward clearing his mind.
He wasn’t likely to get that, though, and it was another reason not to dismiss her out of hand. He’d wonder about it the rest of his life if he made her leave.
Morris swung the door open as the scuff of boots on gravel gave way to the tap of shoes on the stone of the front steps.
Mrs. Brightmoor sank further into the woodwork. She actually managed to blend her faded orange printed muslin partially into the glaringly red wallpaper. It was a rather amazing feat.
This would be a good test for her, as the men, though utterly respectable gentlemen, were of little importance in English society. They were of great importance to William, however, as what the men had managed to do was pool their limited resources into an exceptionally well-producing modern manufactory in Manchester. He’d invited them here to learn how they’d done it.
Technology was the future, and William had a desire to expand and modernize manufacturing on his own lands. He refused to let the marquisette drown while he was at the helm.
The two men strode in with confidence, easing William’s trepidations. He wanted solid knowledge and advice, not pandering and attempts to tell him what they thought he wanted to hear. By all appearances, these two men knew they possessed a certain amount of expertise.
William appreciated confidence.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Gherkins.” He then shook the taller man’s hand. “Mr. Blakemoor.”
After William had greeted each man, he glanced toward Mrs. Brightmoor, but she was nowhere to be found. Suddenly the parlor maid, Sarah, stumbled into the room as if she’d been pushed through the doorway. Her eyes were enormous in her pointed elfin face. She blinked rapidly before executing an awkward curtsy.
William cleared his throat. Another mystery was not what he needed just then. “Gentlemen, my, er, maid will see you up to your rooms, and I’ll have your bags sent up directly.”
He kept his smile in place until the men disappeared into the inner chamber to climb the stairs, then he ran a frustrated hand across his chin.
He really was going to have to do something about his housekeeper.
Daphne tripped over nothing and almost went sprawling across the smooth marble floor of the tall central hall.
Breath rattled in and out of her lungs so quickly her lips were beginning to tingle. If she could, she’d have reached into her chest and smashed her heart flat so it couldn’t pound against her ribs anymore. She could actually feel the blood pulse through her brain, hear it crackle in her ears, so hard and loud she could barely think.
And right now she really, really needed to think.
Her father was here.
Here.
In this house.
Where she’d lived for the past twelve years without the knowledge of the owner. Where she’d raised her child and many others whose very existence he would find reprehensible.
Where she now worked as a lowly housekeeper.
And she’d thought having total strangers invade what had once been her home was the worst that was going to happen today. Having someone she knew walk through those doors was ever so much worse.
She darted through the strange little sitting room full of glass and into the music room. Simply pacing around the large grand piano grounded her a bit, helped her breathe.
The clicks and taps she could hear over her pulse were probably footsteps echoing through the front hall as her father and a man she hadn’t recognized—nor really taken much time to look at—presumably followed Sarah up the stairs.
It hadn’t been well done of Daphne to shove Sarah into the room to handle the hostess duties. Were they hostess duties? They were housekeeper duties. It was dangerous to start thinking of herself as the hostess of anything.
The Marquis of Chemsford was not about to elevate her status above that of servant, and she would do well to remember it.
Not even when she’d circulated on the fringes of London’s upper crust had she entertained visions of becoming titled. Imagining herself a marchioness now was beyond ludicrous.
How nice would it be, though? To greet her father from a position of power, having risen from the ashes of her past? Perhaps his eyes would fill with admiration and even a bit of regret. Maybe he would grab her hand and beg her forgiveness, ask her to come home for a visit, express a desire to meet Benedict and then greet him with the love and care of family.
She would, of course, grant all of those wishes. Forgiveness had been granted him long ago. Daphne understood the choices he’d made. What good did it do for both of them to sink into poverty and despair? Besides, look how far she’d come. She was sitting on top of the world now. Even though Lord Chemsford was rather reclusive, no one in London would dare to shun his wife.
Daphne blinked and pinched herself hard on the arm. She was not the man’s wife. She hardly even knew him—was still not sure if she even liked him.
Her imagination was the last thing that could help her right now. Reality was crashing in. She had nothing to show her father beyond her ability to manage to survive without him. That was hardly going to earn his admiration.
She forced slow, deep breaths into her body, and the roar of blood in her ears receded enough that she could make out other footsteps. These weren’t going in the direction of the grand staircase, though. They were coming through the glass sitting room toward the music room.
Toward her.
And since Mr. Morris had yet to show an inclination for the pianoforte, she could only assume it was Lord Chemsford, come to see why she’d suddenly disappeared.
She couldn’t face him. Not right now. Not until she decided what to do about her father.
Daphne abandoned the pianoforte, dragging her hand across the surface in a bit of longing as she went. This was not the time to linger over what she missed, not with her past threatening to swallow her whole.
She scurried into the short passage off the music room and into the grand portrait gallery. Probably not her best choice of direction, as she was now well and truly trapped. The only way in or out of the portrait gallery was the passage to the music room.
Unless she dropped out of one of the windows.
It wasn’t far, at least not far enough to cause any damage other than a few bumps and bruises. Right now, that was a more-than-acceptable price to pay for a few moments of solitude.
There was no time to consider the prudence of such an idea. She went to the farthest window and shoved open the sash. Well, she tried to. The windows in this room hadn’t been opened in ages, since the children had only used this room if the weather outside was poor.
With considerable effort, she managed to wedge the windo
w open enough to duck through. She pulled her skirt up a bit and hiked one leg over the window ledge before sitting on it and folding over to duck her head through.
“Are we going to pretend this is a new method for washing windows, or can we simply skip that part and go straight to you telling me why you are running away from my guests?”
Daphne froze, bent in half, straddling a windowsill, skirt pulled up in such a way that she had to be showing an extremely indecent amount of leg.
She could do it. Roll right on over and continue her escape. But where would she go? The cottage? The kitchens? Maybe she should just keep walking until she reached Marlborough and find some way to start over completely. That was the inevitable outcome once he learned her true identity. At least if she went on her own she could fool herself into thinking it was by choice and not another personal failure.
This time, though, there would be no Kit to help her out.
Kit had wanted to stay after her marriage, wanted to be here for Daphne as the house transitioned from a haven to a proper estate, but Daphne had insisted that was no way for her friend to start her new marriage. She’d sent Kit away on her wedding trip, assuring her everything would be fine. What could Daphne possibly do to cause a problem out in the middle of nowhere? Haven Manor was her home and she could handle anything that happened there.
She’d been wrong.
So very, very wrong.
Daphne folded her hands onto the wood in front of her, dropped her forehead on top of them, and cried. They weren’t noisy tears, as Daphne didn’t do noisy weeping and sobbing, so to anyone looking—or rather, to Lord Chemsford, since he was the only one in the room—she probably looked like a collapsed marionette or a forgotten doll. Her shoulders didn’t even shake much. Daphne was capable of crying a bucketful of tears with three children snugged into a bed around her and not disturbing a single soul.
It was a strange talent, but one of the few she could claim with confidence. It helped that she didn’t cry often. She was usually capable of seeing the positives in an awfully bad situation. When she got to the point of tears it was nigh on hopeless.
A Return of Devotion Page 16